Sophie Draper - Magpie

I’m prepping tea and Joe is sat at the kitchen island with a long glass of milk in his hand. He fidgets on his seat, as if he can’t stop himself from moving.

‘It was in a field next to an old Roman road. He’d found a couple of coins and ended up discovering a clay pot of some kind, sunk into the ground. It was crammed full of coins – can you imagine that?’

He doesn’t wait for me to answer.

‘And so heavy you couldn’t possibly lift the whole thing out. The sides of the pot were broken and he had to leave it in place, carefully removing the coins under cover of night. He did that so that no one else knew what he’d found.’

I have an image in my head of an old man in his cardigan pulling out green coins with his bare fingers by the light of the moon. I have to smile.

‘Layer by layer, coin by coin, over several nights, until the whole thing was extracted. He didn’t report the find till after that. There were more than fifty thousand coins in total!’

Joe loves telling me these stories, when he finds his voice. It’s his dream, finding a hoard. When Duncan’s not around he talks about it endlessly, the different coin types, how to date them, how to clean them, the different patterns on each side.

‘The rules are complicated,’ he says. ‘And the coroner has to be told.’

Joe’s told me this so many times. I’d always thought coroners only dealt with the dead, but they deal with treasure too, apparently.

‘They have to estimate the level of precious metal content – that’s important when it comes to what happens next and how much the find is worth … Mum, are you listening?’

‘Course I am, Joe. You were telling me about the coroner.’

‘No, I was telling you about metal content.’

He flashes a look of frustration at me. Then he’s off again, detailing different measurements, his hands animated, his body leaning over the kitchen island, gulping down his milk in between long, rambling fact-filled sentences.

It’s a boy thing, I tell myself, all that data and statistics, the kind of information overload that makes me want to walk away but sets Joe on fire. All I can think is, at least he’s doing something constructive, active, and he’s communicating with me. I feel the guilt of my disinterest wash over me. It’s nice to see him on fire.

‘Come on, Joe, that’s enough for now, tea’s ready. If you drink too much of that milk you won’t be hungry. Help me take this through to the table.’

I shouldn’t begrudge him the milk. As a teenager, he guzzles the stuff. Listen to me, I sound so much like the mother that I am. Joe goes to the fridge for more milk and I text Duncan upstairs to say that tea is ready.

We eat in silence. Duncan pushes the pasta into neat piles before scooping it into his mouth and Joe shovels it like a farmhand clearing out the stables. I glance between the two of them, the one with too little hair, the other with too much, and then Duncan’s mobile beeps.

His fingers tap twice and inch towards the phone, then he pulls back.

It beeps again. He looks at me. I refuse to look at him and Joe keeps on eating. After a few minutes, I push my plate away, all pretence at hunger gone.

Then the stupid thing beeps again.

‘Can’t you switch it off?’ I say.

My voice is quiet but sharp and the pulse at my neck is racing. Duncan’s eyes meet mine then slide away. He carries on eating as if I haven’t spoken.

Lo and behold, the phone beeps again. I feel my cheeks suck in and taste the blood on my tongue. I reach for his phone and he grabs it just in time.

‘No phones at the table, we said. Remember?’ I let my voice twist into a sneer.

‘I’m on call,’ he says.

‘Like hell.’

Joe stops in mid-forkful.

‘It’s only work, Claire. You know that.’ Duncan’s tone is smooth and appeasing.

I hate him when he’s like this. As if I’m a child, playing up, or a fool, easily deluded.

‘No, it’s not,’ I say. ‘We both know it’s not.’

‘That’s nonsense, Claire, you’re being paranoid.’

He arranges another pile of pasta.

‘Oh, really?’

Joe is watching us both, eyes wide and unblinking. It reminds me of when he was little, still trying to make sense of the world. Like when we shared a bedtime story, his gaze glued to me as I read, not the book. He’d follow the cadence of each word on my face. I drop my eyes, curling my fingers and breathing long and slow, trying hard to keep it in. But my eyes are drawn back to the phone and then Duncan. He’s actually smiling, like it’s a game.

‘How can you sit there and pretend?’ I say. ‘Day in, day out. How can you do this?’

He doesn’t answer. His fingers tap again and he stands. He picks up his plate and turns round, his back stiff and unyielding. He moves into the kitchen. I hear the click of the automatic bin and the clunk of the dishwasher. A few minutes later there’s the swoosh of the front door. He’s gone. And Joe goes back to eating.

I think of the papers hidden in the folds of the magazine by my bed. The appointment I’ve made for tomorrow. Duncan thinks that nothing’s changed. That I’ll stay, like I always have. But our son is eighteen now; he left school months ago. He’s all grown up, a legally independent, responsible adult.

And I’m the one in control here, not Duncan.

Duncan’s gloved hands were stained with blood. The dog’s skin was peeled back, revealing the bloodied bone and yellow subcutaneous fat. The radio played softly in the background and the monitors beeped with a reassuring regularity as he dabbed at the opening with a swab.

There were three of them: Duncan and Paula, the newest vet at the practice, and Frances, the senior nurse. Their legs and hips were pressed against the operating table and the light blazed a harsh white over their heads, picking up a glint of red hair from beneath Paula’s surgical cap.

‘Okay,’ said Duncan. ‘Let’s get this little chap put together again.’

He tugged gently on the flaps of skin, pulling them towards each other. It was a struggle; the dog was barely a year old and the metal pins holding the leg bones left little space for the original skin to meet. Duncan shifted the skin a little higher.

‘Frances – can you hold it there?’

She took the clamps into her hands.

‘Left a bit. Hold it … wait …’

Duncan pursed his lips and pulled again, reaching in with a suture needle, feeding the thread between his gloved fingers to make the first stitch.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘And another. Paula, can you clean around here?’

They worked together in silence. Ten minutes later, the opening had been closed. Frances gave a relieved smile and Duncan took a step back.

‘That’s it. Thank you, both. I’m glad to see that one done.’

‘She’s looking good,’ Frances replied. ‘You should go and ring the owner. You’ve earned that. We’ll finish off and resuscitate. I’ll see this one to the ward.’

Frances smiled again. She was older than Duncan, her darker skin and years of experience warming her features, the lines around her eyes creasing above her mask.

Duncan pulled the gloves from his hands, dropping them into the refuse bucket. He tugged the mask from his face and left the room, pushing the door with his shoulder and reaching up to rub his neck. Three hours on one dog – the smaller animals were often the most difficult. But it had been a success. He headed for his consulting room to make the call.

‘Duncan!’

It was Sally on reception. Her usually straight blonde hair was falling unkempt about her shoulders. A collection of dirty coffee mugs stood by the phone and the printer was spewing out blank sheets of paper. As ever, the room was busy with people and animals. Duncan nodded briskly at the man who lifted one hand in greeting.